


In the Tongues of Men and Angels

by Astronomical_Aphrodite



Series: Everything Stays [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guarma Doesn’t Happen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews Lives, M/M, Protective Arthur, Sonny’s Cabin - Mentioned, fuck guarma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astronomical_Aphrodite/pseuds/Astronomical_Aphrodite
Summary: Things hadn’t been going well for them lately, so Arthur should’ve figured beforehand that their Saint Denis bank heist would go to shit as well.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan
Series: Everything Stays [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643872
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	In the Tongues of Men and Angels

“Mister Milton,” Dutch shouted through the door of the bank, voice hoarse with an underlying desperation that Arthur definitely didn’t want to unpack, “let my friend go, or folks... they are gonna’ get shot _unnecessarily_...”

Hosea was being held at gunpoint, and seeing the man who essentially raised him in such a dangerous position made bile rise up in his throat. Sure, they’d been in danger plenty of times before, but it felt different, somehow. He felt like the rest of them were invincible sometimes, escaping anything life could throw at them, but then a whole lot of people had died, and suddenly he could feel the frailty of human life in its horrible entirety.

Sean cursed underneath his breath, and Arthur couldn’t focus as Dutch tried unsuccessfully to bargain with the detectives, hiding underneath his bravado when he was simply desperate to save his best friend. Arthur was numb, couldn’t feel his fingers, and he tried listening, but it was like they were speaking a foreign language — he simply wasn’t comprehending it, because Hosea had a gun to his head, and Hosea was about to die. Hosea could very well die, and he barely remembered a world without Hosea in it, and Arthur didn’t know what he would do if Hosea just _wasn’t there._

Dutch wasn’t talking Milton out of killing Hosea, but when Milton released the older man, he felt a rush of confused hope that was quickly dashed when Milton unholstered his gun. He saw the resignation on Hosea’s face in the moment before he turned around, mouth set in a straight line and hands clenched into fists at his sides, and before Arthur knew what he was doing, he was drawing his own revolver and leaping out into the street.

“Arthur, what’re ya—” Dutch tried to shout, but he’d already disarmed Milton with a shot to the detective’s hand, and the man shouted in pain, dropping his weapon hastily as he fell to his knees. Arthur grabbed Hosea by the elbow, tugging him back towards the bank while the other agents, who had previously been standing idly by, hurried to draw their own weapons from where they were holstered. “Hosea,” he stuttered out in astonishment just as bullets started shattering the windows.

“Damn _risky fucking move,_ kid,” Hosea hissed scoldingly, but Arthur could tell he was relieved, collapsing to the floor of the bank as he started coughing wetly into the crook of his elbow. Arthur started shooting as Lenny dropped down next to Hosea, patiently helping him through his coughing fit.

“I couldn’t have just let ya’ die,” Arthur shouted back over the din of gunfire, ducking around the doorframe to shoot at the agents out on the streets. He shot three agents out on the street in their heads in quick succession, pausing only to reload before dispatching another standing up on the balcony of the building across the street.

“Just keep shooting,” Dutch yelled, “I have a plan!” And Arthur wanted to talk back at him, make a scathing remark about how his plans had worked out for them so far, but the words got caught in his throat as he swallowed tightly, choosing instead to simply nod. “We’ll make our way towards the roof,” he instructed, and Arthur thought it sounded crazy, but working their way through the streets would somehow have been even worse, so he went along with it.

It was a blur, making it to the rooftops, but eventually they made it, and Arthur nearly coughed his lungs out from the exertion. As they ran along the balconies and roofs, heading towards the docks, he spotted the men bursting through the door with their guns raised just in time to pump iron into their chests — one man collapsed motionless, while another writhed on the ground in pain before stilling in a pool of his own blood. Lenny gaped, stumbling backwards, and Arthur pressed a hand on his back as others ran past them. “C’mon,” he grunted, and Lenny had the wisdom to keep moving, following the others.

Arthur didn’t know how they escaped, the next hour passing by in a blur, but they somehow managed to get away, racing back towards camp and hastily packing their belongings. Moving again wouldn’t be fun, especially since Shady Belle was such a nice place to make camp, but they needed to move on quickly before the agents could find them again. He figured he would have a nasty bounty on his head, but he had plenty of money, and it couldn’t possibly be more than he had in Blackwater.

Together, they headed north, away from the city, and ended up in an abandoned bayou town that he’d only visited once before, a place once named Lakay that had some sort of local reputation for being haunted. “Haunted, _my ass,_ ” Arthur murmured to himself as he set up his belongings in his room, setting his photographs down with reverence as he tried to keep himself from breaking down. Their new camp was too close for comfort to where Sonny’s cabin had been, but he’d burned that place to the ground alongside its owner, so he objectively knew that there was nothing they had to worry about besides the Night Folk he could sometimes see running through the swamps, or the law coming after them.

He’d hastily traveled west towards the station in Rhodes to pay off their bounties, and although they wouldn’t let him pay off Dutch’s, that was to be expected. The rest of them had their ledgers cleaned, though he was certain that the Pinkertons wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him on sight, regardless of his expunged record. He’d killed enough men that their blood permanently stained his hands, and he figured only heading towards a new state entirely would ever allow him freedom from his past.

Coughing as he rode back, he struggled to get air into his lungs for a moment before he spat up bloody phlegm, his spit a bright red color on the side of his hand. Something like fear turned his stomach into knots, but he rubbed his spit off on the rough fabric of his pants and tried to forget it ever happened. He had enough to worry about without being sick.

It was evening by the time he arrived, Kieran already waiting for him at the entrance to the town with the bags underneath his eyes seeming heavier and a shotgun clenched in his hands. Shoulders slumping when Arthur hitched his horse, his hand fluttered nervously at his elbow before he seemingly decided against touching him.

“Hosea wanted to see ya’ in the main house,” Kieran said exhaustedly.

Arthur nodded, utterly exhausted both emotionally and physically. “I’ll go talk to him right now,” Arthur assured him, rubbing at his face, and Kieran almost looked disappointed, although he nodded in acknowledgement.

He started walking away, but Kieran abruptly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and when Arthur turned towards him, his expression was almost pitying. It didn’t sting as much as it should have. “Arthur,” he said, grip tightening on him, “you deserve some rest. Make sure you sleep tonight, and don’t just go running off somewhere to escape all of this.”

Nodding, he felt a smile tugging at his face for the first time that evening. “I’ll try,” he promised, walking towards the biggest structure in Lakay, with its large porch and old wooden boards.

Dutch was having a smoke outside, nursing his pipe as he leaned against the railing of the house’s porch and stared into the distance, but he waved tiredly when Arthur approached, expression remaining grim. “Hosea’s inside,” he mumbled around the pipe, and Arthur wondered if he was the only person who didn’t know Hosea was looking for him.

“Figured,” Arthur returned, clambering up the stairs towards the front door.

The parlor was messy, broken bottles and empty cans littering the ground with furniture strewn across the room, their wood rotten. He could tell it used to be homey, but the paint on the walls had dulled, and cobwebs had formed in the corners while the rugs and curtains and bedsheets grew holes from moths and insects chewing on them.

Walking through the open arch where a door was supposed to be fixed to the broken, rusty hinges, when he walked inside and looked to the left, Hosea was sat on the bed, a book open in his lap. When he heard Arthur’s riding boots squeak on the floorboards, he turned towards him, smiling softly. “Arthur, hello,” he greeted warmly, patting the mattress next to him, “come and take a seat with me! This is a big bed, here.”

Arthur collapsed with a groan, closing his eyes. His leg muscles were sore, and he rubbed at the tops of his thighs, trying to work the stiffness out of them. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days, too busy with the robbery and the ensuing fallout to properly get a rest. “I paid our bounties,” he rasped, “although they were pretty steep. Cost me nearly three thousand for the lot of us, and I still couldn’t pay the ten thousand on Dutch’s head.”

“Thanks, Arthur,” Hosea said, patting him on the back, “although it wasn’t necessary. We’re used to a life on the run.”

“Doesn’t mean that’s the way it _oughta_ be,” Arthur grumbled.

Hosea laughed, but he didn’t disagree. “If only,” he sighed, clearly amused.

Yawning, Arthur pressed his closed fist to his mouth, nearly starting to cough, although he managed to choke down the tickle in his throat. Taking a wheezy breath and clearing his lungs of mucus, he swallowed tightly, ignoring the pressure in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he felt like brushing it off as illness or as worry, because having either wasn’t good. “It was a rough day,” he said tentatively.

“The others made it out alright,” Hosea said, brushing off his concern.

“You could have died,” Arthur said, trying to keep his tone even and neutral. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure, not when the rest of the gang was relying on him to help everybody survive. If he broke down, the rest of them would know something was seriously wrong, and they would lose confidence, and they would fracture. They couldn’t afford that. “Dutch wasn’t talking Milton out of shooting ya’,” he continued, “and he could have killed you.”

Hosea waved him off, expression one of wry resignation. “I’m an old fool,” he drawled, “a lot older than most outlaws get, and I’ve lived a full life. Hardly ever do anything for this gang anyways, although I’ve earned my retirement.”

“Hosea, you could have _died,_ ” Arthur reiterated, tone strained.

“With this annoying cough of mine, it’s only a matter of time before I kick the bucket,” Hosea assured him brazenly, and it made something clench painfully in Arthur’s chest, his stomach twisting into knots.

“I woulda’ _missed_ you,” Arthur retorted indignantly, voice cracking, and it was all it took for the dam to break.

Hosea pulled him in close, and Arthur pressed his face against the older man’s collar bone. Sniffling like a child, he rubbed roughly at his eyes, trying to dry the tears that gathered on his lashes, but Hosea grabbed his hands and made him allow himself to weep.

“I think the last time you let me hold you this close was when someone put a bullet put into you for the first time,” Hosea mused, the words breaking off into choked coughs that wracked his chest. Arthur stayed quiet, letting the coughing fit pass, and eventually Hosea continued. “You must’ve been fifteen,” he continued, tone raspy and fond, “had barely been with us a year at that point, and you got shot in the thigh. Didn’t cry when we removed it, of course, because you thought that you were too tough for that, but you let me hold you the rest of the night.”

Even though he was crying, Arthur found himself smiling at his memory of the first time he’d felt physical attention since he was seven years old and his mother had died. It was the first time he had been shown any sort of love or affection in eight years, seeing as his father was a heartless bastard and people didn’t normally take kindly to a thieving street urchin. “That was almost two decades ago,” Arthur mumbled.

Hosea nodded into the crown of his head. “Time is a funny thing,” he cautioned, “because we think we’re so old already, but we forget that we can’t get any younger.” Hosea shifted over in the bed, and instead of being on top of his arm, Arthur was nestled in the crook of it. Hosea tugged the blanket over them both, and he closed his eyes, taking in the warmth and the comfort it brought. “The good times can pass by without us noticing,” Hosea continued softly, “and although this may be embarrassing for ya’, it’s days like these that remind us those good times can’t last forever.”

“Wish they could,” Arthur said sleepily. He identified as a pessimist, believed that romanticism is dead and everything is pointless and the world is a cruel, selfish place that can do nothing but take. Still, he couldn’t help but wish he was a child again, wrapped up in mother’s arms. He wished he’d spent more time with his son, been a better father, done more than he thought he could to be in his life. He wished that they could just settle their differences with the Pinkertons with words, stop the needless bloodshed he had once participated in blindly. “Everybody would be better off if we all had nothin’ to worry about.”

“Bah,” Hosea exclaimed, “we wouldn’t appreciate the good times if that was all we had!”

Arthur didn’t respond, continuing to cry into Hosea’s chest, and the man rubbed soothing circles into the sore muscles of his back. Combing his fingers through Arthur’s hair, he relaxed, and he could almost forget the weight of his gun in his grip, the scream of Milton when he shot his pistol out of his hands, the expression of peaceful acceptance on Hosea’s face shattering. The firefight afterwards was a blur, but he could remember the chaos and death, and how they fled afterwards.

He didn’t ever want to lose Hosea. The others, too, but especially Hosea.

“You make a good pa’,” Arthur huffed, and the man laughed.

“Of course I do,” he agreed gleefully, “mostly because Bessie tried so hard to make me into an adequate husband.”

Arthur choked out a laugh, and Hosea stroked his back again. He listened to the crickets chirping outside as folks slept in their tents and sleeping bags, an owl hooting somewhere on the woods, and he hoped that the next time someone’s life was at risk, their luck wouldn’t run out.

**Author's Note:**

> Hosea is like my 3rd or 4th favorite character, and I’m like four missions away from his death now, so I need to comfort myself through writing. It is how it is.


End file.
